Olivetti: Inception

by Tamilore Odimayo

  Copyright © 2013 by Tamilore Odimayo

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without prior consent of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The storyline, characters, dialogue and names used are based plainly on the author’s imagination and are not based on real events. Any similarity to actual events is simply coincidental.

  Visit our Website www.tamiloreodimayo.com

  First Edition: September 2013

  Second Edition: October 2016

  ISBN-13: 978-1539785316

  ISBN-10: 1539785319

  Printed in the United States of America

  In memory of my grandfather

  Oba John Feyisara Odimayo

  OLIVETTI

  INCEPTION

  PROLOGUE

  In modern day America, the influence of the Italian mafia and other organized crime syndicates seems to have decreased. After the advent of 9/11, the FBI and CIA shifted their attention from locking up members of big Italian crime families to the pursuit of foreign terrorist. The godfather ideology, Italian brotherhood ideology and the mafia, all seem to be a thing of the past.

  Current and former members of the Italian mafia have created legitimate business from blood of past crimes, basking in unbelievably large amounts of wealth as they launder their money through the New York Stock Exchange. Although, current American crime statistics show crimes being perpetuated by petty gangs and drug cartels, there is no doubt that the mafia still has a behind the scenes control over it.

  New York’s mafia royal family, the Olivettis are benefactors of trees of wealth planted by seeds of past crimes. Though they are still under the watchful eye of old rival families, they have managed to keep their affairs behind the public eye. Time and time again, they have been forced to go back to past methods of handling problems. They call themselves white-collar thugs.

  Ristorante di Cecilia—a restaurant owned by the Olivetti family. Luxurious and welcoming. Tantalizing and Entertaining. The restaurant had a perfect view of New York’s high rises. The expensive chandeliers brightened the restaurant evenly, leaving sparkle and glow on all glassware. Expensive works of art were carefully displayed on its grey and white walls. The tables, chairs, drapes, table clothes were all imported from Italy, giving the restaurant an expensive vintage and majestic look.

  It was a warm summer evening in the month of June. The weather was perfectly humid with a hint of cool breeze. In the restaurant, a live Italian jazz band blocked out the loud noise of New York’s busy streets. The music was soothing. The Chefs scrambled back and forth with Italian signature dishes. Waiters and waitresses struggled to keep up with the demand for fine Italian wine. The sun was setting and shades of darkness soon began to settle around New York’s alleys. The restaurant contained all members of New York’s Royal family – the Olivettis. Don Daniel Olivetti’s first daughter, Ann, had just graduated from NYU. Friends of the family smiled gracefully as father and daughter danced to the music.

  Male members of the family exhumed dominance in their expensive black suits. The elegant dresses of the women embraced their flattering femininity. It was a fantastic celebration. Invited friends of the family watched them in awe – the power – the money. In the presence of the Olivettis, they felt like beggars waiting on the street for the last crumbs on the king’s table.

  Walter Olivetti’s family was seated on the right side of the room. They laughed and cheered to the music. Trained bodyguards tried to blend into the celebratory atmosphere. They were in every corner of the room.

  “To Ann Olivetti! Congratulazioni!” Sebastian Olivetti, Don Daniel Olivetti’s younger brother, yelled in a state of drunkenness as he raised his wine glass to his beautiful niece.

  “Congratulations!” Everyone cheered, also raising their wine glasses to toast the celebrant.

  Don Olivetti was a proud father. Ann Olivetti smiled uncontrollably – she was happy – Her graduation party was more than she had imagined. Don Olivetti walked up to the microphone. The band paused their music. The room became still. Waiters stopped their movements. Chatter seized. The silence was almost deafening. Everyone stared at the magnificent aura of Don Olivetti in dire anticipation of his speech.

  “I’m so proud of you, Ann!” Don Olivetti began. Everyone cheered in response.

  “You didn’t waste my money like I thought you would.” Everyone laughed.

  “I’d just like to say that I’m proud to be your father and congratulations on your acceptance into NYU law!” A loud applause erupted. Some whistled.

  Just then, bullets shattered the windows. The restaurant suddenly became tense. People screamed in horror and ran for their lives. Wine glasses fell. Tables were flipped over as the Bodyguards directed everyone to the back of the restaurant. The bodyguards grabbed Don Olivetti and his daughter – shielding them from incoming bullets. Tom, Don Olivetti’s nephew and son of Walter Olivetti froze in a stationary position as he observed one of the shooters – a man with a skull ring and a gold chain.

  “Everyone to the kitchen!” Dean, Tom’s bodyguard yelled as he drew out his weapon. Time felt slower as bullets brushed through the air. The guards shot back. Two of the assassins dropped dead on the floor, outside the restaurant. Walter looked back. He could see his son, Tom, still stationary and frozen. He ran towards Tom then pushed him to the ground – dodging all bullets. Walter felt a sting on his leg. He was bleeding. Soon, the shooting seized. Those who needed to be dead were and others fled. Guards ran towards Walter Olivetti. There was blood everywhere. He had passed out.

  1

  The sun struggled to infiltrate the room’s thick curtains. Tom woke up in a state of panic. His eyes dashed from one corner of the room to the other. His heart slammed the walls of his chest like an offbeat drum. His pillowcase was soaked with sweat. His hands unconsciously clenched his black comforter for support. His bedroom door was closed and there didn’t seem to be any threat at his computer desk, his mini living area and his walk-in closet. He glanced at his alarm clock then gave a huge sigh of relief. Night after night, he had been having recurring nightmares of the tragic assassination attempt against his family, an incident he partially blamed himself for.

  He stretched out his arms then jumped out of bed. He put on his bedroom slippers then dragged his feet to the bathroom. He stared into the mirror, leaning on the sink, with anger in his eyes. He was used to the nightmares, but the frequency was increasing and so were his panic attacks.

  It bothered him that the men who tried to kill his family were still walking around a New York grocery store buying a gallon of milk or singing kumbaya in a church. No punishment. No consequence. No retribution. He turned on the tap, splashed water on his face, reached for a bottle of mouthwash, gaggled it then spat it out.

  He sighed deeply as he stared into the mirror once again. His face looked solemn and tired. Posttraumatic Stress Disorder—still, he refused to see a shrink. He brushed his fingers through his jet-black hair, put on his bathrobe then made his way to his father’s room, down the hall.

  “Morning Tom,” Johnny, his father’s bodyguard said. Tom ignored him as he walked into his father’s room.

  Tom gazed at his father. He was lying on the bed with one leg hanging up in a cast. His room had many windows and looked like a mini resort. The wind blew the tan curtains steadily. The influx of fresh air was controlled. On the right side of his bed, medical machines beeped endlessly with a connected cable that released morphine as needed. The television on the south end of the room was tuned to CNN. Tom could smell the left over breakfast on the left side of his father’s bed; toast, bacon,
eggs, baked beans, orange juice and coffee.

  Tom moved closer to his father’s bed. He was reading the New York Times. He noticed the white strands emerging on his father’s Jet Black hair. It gave him an almost eloquent look of sophistication and his eyeglasses added an aura of intelligence.

  “Tommy boy,” his father said with a smile. “Morning father,” Tom said with his right hand on his father’s shoulder, a gesture of respect.

  Tom’s father, Walter Olivetti, was one of the most dangerous men in the country. His reputation as a white collared gangster was a stigma passed down from the first generation of Olivetti Italians who immigrated to the United States, in the fifties. Prior to the death of the first patriarch of the family, Don Frederick Olivetti, the entire family’s fortune was based solely on illegal franchises ranging from cocaine to human trafficking. The FBI was relentless in their investigation of the Olivetti mob boss.

  As the years passed, the illegal franchises began to transcend to legitimate businesses in real estate and massive stock exchange investments. Unfortunately, the Olivettis had already stock piled a closet full of enemies who wanted their piece of the pie. Other mob families held on to past grudges like flies on a dead carcass.

  Walter Olivetti was currently a victim of a past grudge. Lucky for him, the attackers underestimated the amount of security the Olivettis had. Security in the Olivetti family quadrupled since the incident. Tom and his two sisters had two personal bodyguards, each, that followed them everywhere. More than twelve guards guarded their home day and night, besides their personal bodyguards.

  Their security detail was as complicated as the President of America. Tom was fed up with everything. It was difficult to feel safe and blend-in with two angry looking men following him everywhere he went. His recurring nightmares caused an insatiable thirst for revenge. He knew what he had to do. He knew what he had to become, but his old man wouldn’t approve. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

  Walter removed his glasses, dropped it beside his bed and stared deeply into his son’s eyes. Tom’s mind had unconsciously drifted into a state of morbid anger.

  “What’s the matter son?” Walter asked.

  “Nothing. Just thinking about school work,” he lied.

  Tom gazed at his father’s leg. The cast was a reminder of the pain his father was currently going through. His thirst for revenge was becoming unbearable and his inability to satisfy his vengeance made him feel like a baby being deprived of breast milk. Still, he was thankful, his father’s condition could have been worse. He could have lost his leg or even died.

  He could see the face of the man who shot his father. Everywhere he looked, the man was there. The psychological torture was unbearable and the lack of progress in the capture of the Assassins by law enforcement officers, made him question the competence of the police and the competence of members of the heads of his family.

  “Alright then, you should be heading to school,” Walter said to break the long silence. He could tell his son was lying, but didn’t want to confront it.

  Tom kissed his father’s forehead. “Okay,” Tom replied as he walked out of the room with vengeance in his heart. Walter put on his glasses and took a second look at his son.

  “Hey! Remember trust everybody but don’t just….”

  “…Trust anybody,” Tom said, completing his father’s statement. The quote was a well-known Olivetti slogan and had been passed down from generation to generation.

  “Good,” Walter said as he continued to read his newspaper.

  Tom walked into his father’s office building south of New York. School was a bore. The only thing that kept his mind busy besides the girl he had never summoned the courage to talk to was visiting his father’s office. Since his father was still recovering from his wounds, he took the liberty to snoop into his father’s private files from time to time.

  Tom walked into the small reception. The office was desolate and looked like the Sahara desert in the middle of the summer. It had a few old couches, arranged neatly in a square format. There was a center table with old magazines on it. OLIVETTI ENTERPRISE was written on the wall, in bold gold letters. It was cheaply constructed, but served its purpose. The small shipping company was a dummy corporation for money laundry.

  “Hello again, Tom,” the blonde receptionist said with smug enthusiasm. Her double chin bothered him and her lack of color coordination always messed his day up. She was wearing a blue jean mini skirt, black tights, brown boots, a blue bow tie on her hair, a yellow turtleneck sweater and a red scarf with Garfield pictures on it. Anyone could tell that she had nothing better to do all day. The reception smelled of nail polish and a quick glance at her multi colored nails put Tom in a worse mood.

  “How’s your father doing? Haven’t heard from him in a while. Is he coming back soon?” she asked in a high-pitched voice, with gum in her mouth. He ignored her. He could feel her rolling her eyes behind his back. He stormed into his father’s office. His two bodyguards followed closely behind him. Tom sat on his father’s seat. He briefly gazed at the ceiling. The thought of Nina lingered on his mind like bees on honey.

  “Jack, I need a favor,” Tom said with his feet on the table.

  “Is it something rough?” Jack asked, anxious for some action.

  “No, I need you to follow up on Nina Owen,” Tom said. “Nina Owen? Why?” Jack asked. A part of Tom was ashamed to ask. He was the son of a millionaire gangster, with good looks, an athletic stature, and all the extra time in the world, yet he couldn’t find the courage to talk to a girl he had bumped into at school. Nina was all he could think about despite the hundreds of girls that surrounded him, every day.

  “Just do it please,” Tom replied. Dean smirked. “You know you can just walk up to her, say hi and maybe she’ll give you her number…” Dean said. Tom shook his head. “She’s not that type of girl. She’s different…”

  “All women are the same, boss. The absolute same!” Jack added with a hint of humor in his tone. He had an old school Italian look; white tank top, blue jeans, a thick black leather jacket, aviator shades and a gold necklace that hung on his hairy chest. His dark hair was gelled stiff, backwards, with a clean facial shave. “Just do it! I know it looks weird and stalkerish, but…”

  Dean laughed. “Stalkerish! Yes! Yes…if that’s a word…”

  “Okay, please don’t question me. Just find out about her family…all that basic stuff. Okay?” Tom said firmly.

  “Sure, boss! Not a problem!” Jack replied.

  Tom always took full advantage of his family’s power. He was the youngest Olivetti to ever show interest in the family business. He used the fear people had for his family to his advantage –an aspect of his life he hid from his father. Walter Olivetti did everything in his power to discourage Tom from going into the business.

  “You must not choose the life that my brothers and I chose,” Walter, his father always said, but Tom had to disobey.

  No one was going to stop the merciless assassination attempts. The police were not doing their job because anyone who could wipe out the Olivetti family was doing them a big favor.

  The only family member who knew about Tom’s deeds was Don Daniel Olivetti, the family Patriarch. Dan Olivetti’s altercation with the Mexican Drug Cartel was the source of the problem. Many years earlier, he had accidentally killed Don Alberto Sanchez’s grandson. This event led to a bounty hunt—a free for all—the Mexican crime boss put a price on their heads. Hired guns from across the globe were desperate to collect the bounty.

  Tom pondered about every little detail of the last assassination attempt. He was angry. “It’s not over until Don Sanchez is dead,” Tom thought.

  2

  August 15, 1956

  Frederick Olivetti, a six foot four Italian man with dark long hair, walked out of the airplane. He inhaled the air and sighed. “That’s the smell of freedom,” He said to himself as he jogged down the plane’s steps. He was wearing a simple tee shirt, blue jeans
and black shoes that was so worn-out; it looked like it had been sewn together from three different kinds of cheap leather. It was amazing how all his belongings from Italy fit into one medium sized duffle bag. He remembered his mother’s last words, right before she died.

  “Visit your cousin Jimmy in America and make sure you help him survive. He needs you,”

  He walked through security and immigration services. The line was long, but his enthusiasm to see what New York City had to offer deterred him from the time consuming pain. Everything was different from his home country. People were more pleasant. It seemed like pretense or a mandatory culture of hospitality. Either ways, he was young and excited to start a new life. His plan was simple; visit his cousin Jimmy, stay with him for a couple of months till he could get a job, enroll in college and hopefully become a teacher or a college professor. He stood outside the airport, hoping his cousin will recognize him. It had been ten years since they’d seen each other.

  “Hey handsome!” a girl in a yellow dress said as she walked by.

  Frederick smiled back shyly as his eyes followed hers like a starved dog glancing at a bone. “Freddy?” a voice behind him said. Frederick turned back to see his cousin Jimmy.

  “Jimmy!” Frederick said excited. They hugged multiple times, almost ceremoniously. Jimmy was average sized with short dark hair. He had a look of worry permanently stamped on his face and he had multiple bruises on his face like he had been through many unsuccessful fights. He was wearing a simple summer shirt, nice trousers and shiny Italian shoes.

  “You are big!” Jimmy said.

  “Ma fed me well!” Frederick joked.

  Jimmy smiled. “May her soul rest in peace!” Jimmy replied.